


Inception High School-verse

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:16:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cracktastic high school AU, in which Arthur is studious and honest, and Eames is . . . himself. Inspired by the AU Inception fic of the lovely Imogenedisease. Written for the slashthedrabble prompt “copy.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prosperity of Cheaters

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: No spoilers.

“Be a mate, and let a bloke have a look.”  
  
Arthur Metzler doesn’t even look up from his test sheet. Doesn’t need to, to know the person talking is the English transplant who’d landed in Dalemont High last fall.  
  
“No,” he says, hunching a little over his sheet.  
  
“Oh, c’mon, please?”  
  
Arthur expects there to be more forthcoming, all whispered and rushed, like every “cool” kid that’s ever tried to copy off him. But when nothing more  _is_  forthcoming, he sneaks a glance at the English kid.  
  
He’s built like a jock, but from the rumors Arthur’s heard, he has an actual brain, if not a often-used one. His grades are abysmal, but mostly because, from what teachers tend to say in their shared classes, he refuses to apply himself.  
  
Arthur realizes he’s been staring when dancing eyes that are some indeterminate color smile into his own. Arthur sniffs. “Don’t they have studying in England, or did they not get the memo, yet?”  
  
The English kid—something-or-other Eames, Arthur knows, because even their teachers call him by his last name—pouts ridiculously, his full lips quirking in what Arthur thinks might be a moue.  
  
“Oh, don’t be like that, Arthur. Just let me have a peek,” Eames asks, his whisper almost low enough and intimate enough to be a murmur. Arthur drags his eyes back to his paper. For the first time in his high school career, calculus makes absolutely no sense.  
  
“Leave me alone, or I’ll tell Mrs. French.” Their math teacher takes a dim view of cheaters, indeed. But Arthur isn’t certain he’d be able to purposely put even annoying English guys on her bad side.  
  
And Eames seems to sense he has the upper hand, because when next he speaks, there’s a smirk in his whisper.  
  
“Suit y'self, but don't say I didn't warn you.”  
  
“Are you threatening me?” Arthur demands louder than he means to, and gets Mrs. French’s basilisk glare.  
  
“Is there a problem, Mr. Metzler? Mr. Eames?”  
  
“No, Mrs. French,” they say as everyone in class looks at them. Then Eames adds: “Arthur was just asking to borrow a pencil. Here you go, mate.”  
  
Arthur snatches the pencil and glowers at his paper. “Thank you very much, Eames,” he grits out flatly.  
  
“Call me Roger, sweetheart,” Eames whispers when Mrs. French goes back to her newspaper. As if he and Arthur will have plenty of times to address each other in the future, and—  
  
“ _Sweetheart_?!” Arthur blurts out, and  _everyone_  in the room looks up at him.  
  
“You've just earned yourself a detention for disrupting the class, Mr. Metzler!” Mrs. French barks.  
  
Horrified, Arthur gapes. He and detention are unheard of in the same sentence. Un. Heard of.  
  
“I warned you, didn’t I, darling?” Eames admonishes plummily, to snickers, wolf-whistles, and old lady French's death-glare. Seemingly oblivious—or just uncaring—that he's now sealed both their fates, he winks. “See you in detention.”


	2. Worse-er

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After detention, Arthur’s got a long walk home, and Eames . . . has a car. Written for the slashthedrabble prompt “experience.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: A cracktastic high school AU.

  
In Arthur’s experience, even the  _worst_  day can get worse-er:  
  
  
“You know, you oughtn’t to scowl so. It makes you look older.”  
  
  
Arthur glares down at the sidewalk, but keeps walking. “Well,  _you_  oughtn’t to talk so much. It makes  _you_  seem younger.”  
  
  
Eames’s Challenger keeps pace with Arthur. “That made no bloody sense at all.”  
  
  
“Gee, it’s nice to know you’re not just another pretty face.” Arthur huffs, but doesn’t bother to walk faster. He’s got most of a three-mile walk ahead of him. He might as well pace himself.  
  
  
“You think I’m pretty, then?”  
  
  
 _Now_ , Arthur glances over at Eames. Artfully messy hair spikes and whirls above laughing eyes in a strong-featured face . . . with ears that stick out just a tad too much.  
  
  
Eames  _isn’t_  pretty by any stretch of Arthur’s admittedly underworked imagination, but he might, were Arthur in a more generous mood, be termed  _interesting_.  
  
  
“ _No_ , I don’t think you’re pretty. That’s just a saying. It’s sarcasm-speak for  _you’re an idiot_.”  
  
  
They walk—or in Eames’s case  _roll_  in silence. Then Eames says: “You know, pet, I can’t help but think you and I got off on the wrong foot, today—detention and all—”  
  
  
“We didn’t get off on  _any_  foot! You tried to copy off me, and when I wouldn’t let you, you got petty revenge.” He glares over his shoulder just in time to catch Eames eyeing him like a man deciding whether or not to buy a particular horse. “Look. Unless you’re following me to apologize, I have nothing to say to you, and no intention of listening to you talk. Good day.”  
  
  
More silence, then: “Has anyone ever told you you’re gorgeous when you’re self-righteous?”  
  
  
Arthur finally stops walking and Eames stops driving. “ _Mr._  Eames,  _why_  are you following me?”  
  
  
“Honestly?” Eames grins self-deprecatingly when Arthur snorts. “Obviously for the same reason I pulled your pigtails, this afternoon, you git.”  
  
  
Shaking his head, Arthur laughs mirthlessly. ”You call that an apology where you come from?”  
  
  
“You know, for someone as mild-mannered as you act, you’re quite stubborn.” But Eames has the grace to look a little guilty. “Look, since it’s at least as much my fault as it is yours that you’re walking—”  
  
  
“What?! It’s  _entirely_  your fault, you asshole!” Arthur explodes, and Eames actually sits back, surprised. “I’ve never, in my life, gotten a detention until  _you! You_ , you dick! So  _fuck off_ , or apologize!”  
  
  
“Apologizing would imply that I regret sharing a detention with you and I find that I don’t.” Eames says grudgingly, rubbing the back of his neck. He leans across the passenger seat and opens the door. “Get in, love.”  
  
  
“What?”  
  
  
Eames rolls his eyes. “Let us drive you home, darling. Consider it amends.”  
  
  
“ _Worse-er_ ,” Arthur grumbles under his breath, and Eames leans closer, confused. “Sorry, how’s that?”  
  
  
“There. Was that so hard? Now say that first part again.” Arthur deadpans, and Eames looks even more confused.  
  
  
“Sorry,  _what_?”  
  
  
Arthur rolls  _his_  eyes . . . but gets in.


	3. Home, Sweet Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ride home, and the awkward good-bye. Written for the slashthedrabble prompt “smart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: A cracktastic high school AU.

“So . . . you’re rather smart, eh?”  
  
  
Arthur doesn’t bother to deny it. “Your point?”  
  
  
“And modest, to boot—I love it!” Eames continues without a beat, grinning cheekily at Arthur in the rearview mirror.  
  
  
“I’m neither modest nor arrogant. I just know my strengths.”  
  
  
“Well, if you’re so smart, how is it that you don’t realize how stunning you are?”  
  
  
Arthur blushes, looking away. No one’s ever called him  _stunning_  before, though he has been called  _cute_  often enough that the word makes him want to gag. “Mr. Eames, you’re a shameless flirt—“  
  
  
“Guilty.”  
  
  
“—and I dislike shameless flirts,” Arthur says grimly. He’s actually never  _met_  a shameless flirt until he met Eames, but shameless flirts seem like something he should dislike just on GP.  
  
  
He can feel Eames grinning at him again, and meets that amused gaze in the rearview mirror. Eames laughs delightedly. “Oh, darling, you’re quite the shit liar, aren’t you?”  
  
  
Arthur’s mouth opens then shuts again. He huffs irritably. “I’m really starting to wish I’d just walked home.”  
  
  
“And deny me the pleasure of your company? You wouldn’t be so cruel,” Eames tsks, his cupid’s bow lips curving like he has a delicious secret trapped behind them.  
  
  
 _Wait a minute . . . cupid’s bow of a mouth? Delicious secret?_  Arthur thinks disbelievingly, then shakes his head, looking away from said lips. In his lap, his textbook-laden backpack is looking frayed around the seams, one of which Arthur picks at moodily.  
  
  
Silence holds between them, not exactly uncomfortable, but weirdly charged, like they’re each waiting for the other to say something. Downtown becomes Midtown, and Arthur sighs.  
  
  
“Do you even know where you’re going?” he asks, at the same time as Eames says: “I have no bloody clue where you live.”  
  
  
“Newton Estates,” Arthur mutters unhappily, slouching down in the passengerseat. Eames whistles.  
  
  
“Very nice,” he drawls.  
  
  
“Yeah. Home, sweet home.”  
  
  
“So much distaste packed into one sentence. Impressive.” Eames hangs a quick U-y and the Challenger’s engine rumbles like a bored lion.   
  
  
“What can I say? I’m allergic to McMansions and McMansionites,” Arthur says tersely, then gives equally terse directions to Newton Estates, and the largest McMansion therein.  
  
  
Home, sweet home, indeed.  
  
  
“Thanks.” When Eames keeps looking at him expectantly, he shrugs. “A bunch. But you’re liable to get arrested for bringing down property values in the neighborhood if you don’t am-scray.”  
  
  
“Doubtful, seeing as I live—“ Eames points across the street, at the second largest—and till just recently, vacant—McMansion on the Estate. “—right over there.”  
  
  
Arthur’s mouth drops open. “ _You’re_  a McMansionite?”  
  
  
“Well, my parents are, anyway,” Eames’s grin turns into a crooked smile. “And so are yours, it would appear.”  
  
  
“It would, but no, mom's not a McMansionite. She just works for one.”  
  
  
Beat. “I see,” Eames says softly, seeming uncertain for the first time Arthur’s ever seen.  
  
  
“Do you?" Arthur says coldly, slamming out of Eames’s Challenger. "Thanks for the ride,  _Mr._  Eames.”  
  
  
He shoulders his backpack and stalks up the driveway.  
  
  
Around to the servant’s entrance.


	4. The Midnight Oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gets two very different late night visits from two very different men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: A cracktastic high school AU.

Later that evening, long after Arthur’s managed to put detention and Eames out his mind, the back door to the McMansion opens then closes after a slight pause. Arthur knows who it is. Only one person comes in through the back door—the servant’s entrance, as Arthur tends to think of it—at this time of night.  
  
  
“You’re up late,” Robert Fischer notes, heading straight for the fridge, and the Sapporo Mrs. Hodgins always keeps stocked. He drinks half a bottle down in one long swallow, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing.  
  
  
At the massive kitchen table with his history textbook, Arthur’s mouth goes a little dry, and he looks back down at words that, for the moment, make no sense.  
  
  
“Early to bed and early to rise may make a man healthy, but it certainly doesn’t make him wealthy or wise,” Arthur tells his mother’s employer matter-of-factly. “Just making sure you get a decent return on your investment, sir.”  
  
  
Sighing, Fischer finishes his beer and rinses out the bottle. He free-throws it into the recycling bin with a loud  _clink_ , like always. Then Arthur can feel those cobalt-blue eyes on him, measuring him, as they seem wont to do these days.  
  
  
“You’re not an investment, Arthur, you’re a person.” Fischer comes to sit at the kitchen table across from Arthur. He loosens his tie a bit and clasps his hands in front of him.  
  
  
“A person in whom you’ve invested a lot of money, Mr. Fischer,” Arthur reminds him. Even after an eighteen-hour day, Fischer looks calm and collected in his tailored suit. His face, almost girlishly pretty, is as rosy and rested looking as if he just got out of bed. His eyes seem to glow mellowly.  
  
  
“A person with lots of potential.” Fischer nods at the textbook and then meets Arthur's eyes. Caught out staring, Arthur blushes and swallows.  
  
  
“I know why you’re paying for me to go to Dalemont, Mr. Fischer, and it has nothing to do with my potential.” He bites his lip for a moment before going on. He’s been trying to think of a way to broach this subject for a while, even as he’s wondered if he should. But he may never get another opportunity like this, or have the guts to follow through, so he takes a deep, slightly shaking breath and continues. “I know that we have the same father.”  
  
  
Silence spins out between them for a bit; even when Fischer sits back in his chair, their gazes still hold. Arthur is the first to look away, and Fischer pats his hand reassuringly. His touch is cool and dry, and Arthur shivers.  
  
  
“So, Ariadne finally told you?” Fischer seems surprised, though more at the idea that Arthur’s mother had been honest with him, than at the fact that Arthur knows.  
  
  
“No, mom still tells me my father left us before I was born.” Arthur rolls his eyes. His mother means well, and he’d stopped being angry with her a long time ago. “I figured it out for myself.”  
  
  
At this, Fischer seems to be genuinely pleased. “You’re a smart young man—smarter than  _I_  was, at your age.”  
  
  
Arthur shrugs. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard since he was little. And most recently from Roger Eames, for whom he spares a moment of thought . . . but the moment is fleeting. He’s got bigger fish to fry than some flirty, pushy limey.  
  
  
“So what happens, now?” Arthur asks after a minute of silence, during which Fischer watches him expectantly. Then he smiles a little and holds out his hand. Arthur almost takes it, but turns the twitch of his hand into turning a page of his textbook.  
  
  
“I don’t know. What do  _you_  want to happen, Arthur?”  
  
  
No one's ever asked Arthur that before.  
  
  
Shrugging jerkily, he looks back down at his textbook. He hasn’t figured out, even after knowing for two years that Robert Fischer is his brother, what he wants from the man, if anything. All he knows is he doesn’t expect anything like a brotherly relationship, or even friendship. He’s fairly certain he wouldn’t take those things even if they were on offer.  
  
  
He may not know exactly what he wants from Fischer anymore, but he definitely doesn’t want or need a brother.  
  
  
So he highlights something inconsequential about the Luft Waffe. “Right now? I don’t want anything.”  
  
  
“Fair enough, then. But  _I want_  you to know something.” Fischer’s long hand covers Arthur’s smaller one again, and he looks up, startled. Fischer smiles again, and it’s the kind, understanding one Arthur used to fancy himself in love with. At least until he figured out the  _real_  reason why his mother’s employer had always been so kind to him.  
  
  
Fischer leans in a little, and the Arthur of two years ago would’ve known, just  _known_  he was about to be kissed. This Arthur, however, knows different.  
  
  
And what he wishes . . . what he  _once_  wished has no place in his life, anymore.  
  
  
“The first thing I did after father died was create a trust fund for you. One that you’ll have access to on your eighteenth birthday. You’ll never have to worry about money,” Fischer promises somberly, his eyes terribly sincere.  
  
  
Arthur snorts again. “My mom always made sure I never had to worry about money, anyway. One day, I’ll be able to do the same for her.  _Without_  a trust fund, thanks.”  
  
  
That gentle smile turns wry and amused. “’There’re few things more impressive than a self-made man,’ Arthur. Our, ah, father used to say that.”  
  
  
A muscle in Arthur’s cheek tics and he looks away from Fischer. “Yeah, well. I guess he’d know all about self-made men.”  
  
  
Fischer makes a non-committal noise. “But there’s no shame in having a little help, either.”  
  
  
Bad enough that he’s dependent on Fischer to go to Dalemont, which he really has no choice about. His mother had made that decision, one of many, without his input. But he doesn’t have to like being reminded of his dependence on Fischer’s money any more than he already is. “Right. Whatever you say.”  _Go away._  
  
  
“Christ, but when you scowl, you look just like the old man, you know? Except for your eyes. You have Ariadne’s kind eyes.” Fischer still sounds amused, and a little wistful. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your studies, but . . . if you ever want to talk about it . . . about anything—I mean  _anything_. . . .“  
  
  
 _Like why_ our _father knocked up a girl one-third his age, then didn't do right by her? Like why, after seventeen years, that girl still feels loyal enough to him to keep his dirty little secret? Like why my intelligent, beautiful, generally_ awesome _mother, who could've done anything with her life, instead had some rich old douchebag's bastard kid? Then spent the next seventeen years of her life, which she will_ never _get back, working for said douchebag's douchebag family? Is that really a discussion you want to have with me, big brother?_  
  
  
“Thanks, but no,” Arthur says with stony-faced, laconic politeness.  
  
  
Instead of taking offense, Fischer laughs, standing up and stretching. His shirt comes untucked a little, showing a quick flash of pale, concave stomach. Arthur reflects that there was a time when he’d have spent the next five hours beating off just to that brief flash of skin.  
  
  
He’s not above beating off to it  _now_ , despite what he knows. He just can’t stand the vague sense of guilt and  _dirtybadwrong_  that settles in afterwards.  
  
  
He’s got woes enough without this continued infatuation with his half-brother.  
  
  
By the time he shakes himself out of his reverie, Fischer’s exiting the kitchen, briefcase in hand, a jauntily yawned  _G’night, Arthur,_ tossed over his shoulder.  
  
  
For a long time after Fischer leaves, Arthur sits there, lost in thought, until there’s a quiet knock on the back door.  
  
  
Like an automaton, he gets up to see who it is, peering past the curtains and laughing once in disbelief. He debates opening the door, but his hand’s already turning the knob.  
  
  
“It’s after midnight. What’re you doing here?” he asks Eames, who smiles almost sheepishly, hands shoved in the pockets of fashionably torn blue jeans. The button-down shirt he’s wearing, however, is the most hideous eyesore Arthur’s ever seen, all kaleidoscope colors in stomach-turning patterns. It's the first time Arthur's ever seen Eames in anything other than the school uniform, or his soccer uniform.  
  
  
“Saw there was a light still on, and I took a chance it’d be you, burning the midnight oil, as it were,” Eames says, that sheepish smile turning into his customary grin.  
  
  
“Well, you were right. Were you hoping for a prize?”  
  
  
“Depends on what the prize would be,” Eames replies, crowding into the doorway with Arthur, who takes a step back. Eames, of course follows him. “I’d take a kiss, if you’re giving them out.”  
  
  
“Sorry, I’m not. Good night.” Arthur starts to close the door, but Eames catches it, leaning against the lintel.  
  
  
“You’re absolutely no fun, darling,” he pouts, but unconvincingly. Though his mouth is rather distracting, nonetheless. “And what’re we studying, so late in the evening?”  
  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes. “ _We_  are not studying anything.  _I_  am studying U.S. History.”  
  
  
Eames makes an exaggeratedly pained face. “I’m bollocks at history. Since you're so well-versed, perhaps you could tutor me?”  
  
  
“Perhaps not.” Arthur starts to close the door again, and this time, not only does Eames block it, he crowds his way inside, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it. Arthur feels a flash of something entirely too familiar that he tries to mask with indifference. “Mr. Eames—“  
  
  
“Please,  _please_  call me  _Roger_ , darling? Please?”  
  
  
Ignoring the ‘darling’—as he has all the other times—Arthur lets a world-weary sigh escape. “If I call you Roger, will you go away?”  
  
  
Eames quirks a sardonic eyebrow. “Petal, you know me better than that; of course not.” He saunters past Arthur to the kitchen table and sits in the seat next to Arthur’s; he picks up the textbook. “Bloody hell, I must’ve nodded off in lecture more often than I thought. I had no idea we were up to World War-bloody-II!”  
  
  
“It's twelve am. Do you know where your parents are?” Arthur intones flatly, only to get a curiously piercing once over from Eames, who shakes his head wonderingly.  
  
  
“Figures you’re the type to go reading ahead.”  
  
  
Arthur huffs defensively. “I happen to find history fascinating. Maybe if you tried doing the same, you wouldn’t be tanking in class.”  
  
  
“Maybe. Maybe I just haven’t found the right person to make it come alive for me.” Eames does his best to look innocent, but fails miserably. His face wasn’t made for innocence at all. Not with  _that_  mouth, and those  _eyes_. "Have I mentioned that I find your utter nerdiness unbearably sexy?"  
  
  
“Look, could you cut the flirtatious crap, and just  _tell me what it is you want from me_?” Arthur demands, crossing his arms over his chest. “You don't really want me to tutor you in history, do you?”  
  
  
Eames suddenly looks serious. When he blinks, Arthur notices for the first time how long his lashes are. “Yes. Among other things I want, if you're offering. I honestly could do with some help in history—calculus, as well. And English, too.” He winces, looking almost embarrassed.  
  
  
Arthur shakes his head. “You do realize you  _are English_ , don’t you?”  
  
  
“Yes, and this Englishman can’t write an essay worth a tinker’s damn,” Eames says ruefully, with the air of one confiding his worst, darkest secret. “My spelling is, I’ve been told, atrocious, as is my usage and grammar.”  
  
  
“Tragic. But why should I help you?”  
  
  
Eames leans back in his chair, putting his penny loafered feet up on Arthur’s. “Because you’re an intimidatingly bright, but decent sort who cares deeply for his fellow man's GPA?”  
  
  
“Try again.”  
  
  
“Because I can pay?”  
  
  
Arthur freezes, feeling a swell of the same anger he'd felt earlier in the afternoon. If there's one thing he can't  _stand_ , it's McMansionites who think they can buy any- and everything, Arthur included. “I don’t want your money, Mr. Eames.”  
  
  
Eames’s eyes sparkle and he smiles, slow and lazy. “Then what of mine  _do_  you want? Because everything I have, whatever it is, is yours for the asking, love. And I  _do_  mean  _any_ —”  
  
  
“Enough!” Arthur grits, mildly pissed and  _very_  exasperated. “Look, if I agree to give you some . . . help with your schoolwork, will you quit coming on to me?”  
  
  
After giving Arthur a very thorough eye-fucking that leaves him breathing a little shallowly, Eames sighs faux-apologetically. “Probably not.”  
  
  
“I really don’t like you,” Arthur says conversationally, even though a bolt of that too-familiar  _something_  shoots through him. He walks over to the table and shoves Eames’s feet off the chair, then sits heavily, covering his face with his hands. “Really and truly.”  
  
  
“Oh, you  _love_  me. Everyone does.” Eames’s heavy hand lands on his bicep and rubs like Arthur’s got a muscle ache.  
  
  
He yanks his arm away and glares at Eames. “Not me.”  
  
  
“Not  _yet_ ,” Eames corrects, still grinning. He pushes the textbook toward Arthur. “So, about that tutoring—“  
  
  
“We’re not starting tonight. In fact—“ Arthur stands up again, closing the textbook and stowing it under his arm. “ _I’m_  going to bed—and  _no_ , you cannot join me, nor can you tuck me in!”  
  
  
Eames holds up his hands as if to say  _who, me?_  Then he laughs, standing up himself. He has three inches on Arthur—not exactly tall, but not short, either. When he steps into Arthur’s personal space, eyes shining, Arthur’s breath catches, but this time, he doesn’t step back, even though he  _knows_  he’s about to be kissed, and the second to last thing he needs is to know what Eames chatty, far-too-enticing mouth feels like on his own.  
  
  
Really and truly, he doesn't need that.  
  
  
So he’s not even slightly— _not even_  slightly—disappointed when Eames clears his throat and proves him wrong, instead stepping past Arthur, toward the door. “What say I pick you up for school tomorrow morning, around eight?” he asks, then clears his throat again. “I mean, unless you’ve got a ride already, with a friend, or a . . . a  _significant other_. . . .”  
  
  
Arthur turns and watches Eames linger at the door, sounding as uncertain as he had earlier, upon finding out Arthur wasn’t a McMansionite. Oh, he looks sanguine enough, but his ears are rather bright pink.  
  
  
“I don’t have one.  _A ride,_  I mean,” Arthur adds—proudly, for some reason. “I take the school bus.”  
  
  
Eames smiles again and it’s like the sun coming out. If the sun were really annoying and British. “Splendid! But you know, if you’re in the  _market_  for a significant other—“  
  
  
“I assure you: I’m not.”  
  
  
“—or even just a friend-with-bennies—“  
  
  
“ _Get out_ , Mr. Eames.” Arthur points to the door, trying to look stern, though it’s hard to do so when he’s blushing hard enough to make his face feel hot. Eames licks his lips, and Arthur’s stomach turns right over.  
  
  
 _This is not_ , he tells himself,  _happening to me._  
  
  
“Love, I’ve been  _out_  for ages,” he purrs and smirks, posing at the door like some sort of . . . sexed-up rent-boy. “And for the record, I don’t have a, er,  _ride_ , either. In fact, I haven’t had a  _ride_  since the fam packed us off to America.”  
  
  
Suddenly all the blood in Arthur’s body seems to be flowing away from his face, to his . . . to other places.  
  
  
“Anyway, far be it from me to overstay my welcome, darling!” Eames claps his hands together brusquely, as if he hadn’t been talking about . . .  _riding_ , just a moment earlier. “Tomorrow morning at eight?”  
  
  
“Against my better judgment . . . yes.” Arthur tries once again to come across as stern and forbidding, but from the fond look he receives, he’s less than successful.  
  
  
“Fantastic!” They stand there, staring at each other, until Eames blows him a kiss and ducks out the door with a spring in his step. “Sleep well, my dove. Dream a little dream of me, yeah?”  
  
  
“I  _won’t_  be dreaming about you, and I’m not your damn dove!” Arthur calls to the back door as it snicks softly shut.  
  
  
The silence in Eames’s wake and the continued rush of blood to all points south proclaims Arthur to be at least half a liar.


	5. A Day in the Life Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from a day in the life of Arthur Metzler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: A cracktastic high school AU.

Arthur is very much  _not_  a morning person. So it figures that  _Eames is_.  
  
  
“Good  _morning_ , my darling!” he chirps when Arthur steps out into the barely begun day, uniform tie unusually askew, shirt half untucked, backpack half open. Eames is leaning against the passenger side of his cherry-red Challenger, looking peppy and preppy, his uniform a textbook-perfect example of how Dalemont boys  _should_  look. Even his hair is neatly combed, and parted to one side. “How are we, this fine day?”  
  
  
Arthur, fresh off a night of brief, sporadic sleep, interspersed with wet dreams featuring Fischer and Eames making an Arthur sandwich, grunts and flops into the Challenger when Eames opens the door for him and attempts to hand him in. Arthur swats away his assistance irritably. “Fuck  _off_ , I’m not your girlfriend.”  
  
  
“Ouch! I take it, then, that you  _didn’t_  dream a little dream of me? If you had, you’d be in a better mood,” Eames says, shutting the door and jogging around the front to slide into the driver’s seat. He jingles his keys then whistles happily when the Challenger purrs to life. Then he adjusts the rearview mirror with the express purpose—or so it appears—of beaming his indefatigable grin at Arthur, whose gritty eyes narrow.  
  
  
“I hate you,” he tells Eames simply.  
  
  
Eames merely laughs and blows him a kiss.  
  
  


*

  
  
Halfway through first period, Arthur’s staring dry-eyed at the board, ignoring the frequency with which Eames can be found staring at  _him_ , when there’s a knock on the door of the classroom.  
  
  
When Mr. Callahan frowns and opens the door, a skinny young guy in Dockers and a Pink Floyd t-shirt barges in, looking around the classroom exasperatedly. He’s holding a red travel mug and a small paper bag.  
  
  
“Is there an Arthur Metzler here?” he demands, sounding annoyed and hopeful all at the same time. When everyone in class looks Arthur’s way, the guy rolls his eyes Heavenward and marches up the center aisle with no regard for books knocked onto the floor or backpacks kicked. He stops at Arthur’s desk with a huff.  
  
  
“Here. Hope your morning is going better than mine,” he mutters, putting the mug on Arthur’s desk and dropping the bag in Arthur’s lap. Then he’s gone, back the way he came, managing to knock even more books on the floor and punt more backpacks under more desks.  
  
  
The silence in his wake is thick enough to cut with a knife.  
  
  
 **The Java Cave! For the java you crave!**  the mug proclaims, and the most heavenly scent is wafting up from it. The paper bag is warm, and from the feel of it, contains a biscotti.  
  
  
Arthur  _loves_  biscotti.  
  
  
“Arthur? Explanation, please?” Mr. Callahan barks, hands on hips, looking pretty annoyed, himself. Arthur shrugs, blushing. He can feel every eye in class on him.  
  
  
“I dunno, Mr. Callahan.  _I_  didn’t order it.”  
  
  
“Do you know who did?” Mr. Callahan glares around the class as if trying to figure it out for himself. Every eye he meets looks away, and he sighs, turning back to Arthur, who tries his best to look innocent.  
  
  
“No clue, sir,” he lies placidly.  
  
  
Mr. Callahan  _hmphs_. “Well. I’m certain you must have your guesses. So you can inform whoever did this that unless he wants a week’s detention, to never do it again.”  
  
  
“Understood, sir.” Arthur says, but Mr. Callahan’s already gone back to lecturing in his nasal drone. When he turns back to the board, Arthur doesn’t look at Eames, but he can just make out Eames’s smile from the corner of his eye.  
  
  
“Sweets for the sweet, darling,” he whispers, and Arthur blushes even deeper.  
  
  
He doesn’t look at Eames again for the rest of class, but he  _does_  drink the coffee. And he nibbles on the biscotti, when Mr. Callahan isn’t looking.  
  
  


*

  
  
After school—and the Debate Club--Arthur makes his way out to the soccer field bleachers, just in time to catch the tail-end of a practice match. Eames is the center forward, easily distinguishable despite wearing the same red-on-black uniforms as every other player.  
  
  
He plays hard, laughing and swearing as he does so, never mind Coach Wheeler’s whistle-blowing. When Wheeler calls on them all to form-up again, Eames does so, exchanging high-fives and fist-bumps with his teammates, caught up in team spirit, or camaraderie (or some-damn-thing Arthur’s always looked upon with both disdain and envy).  
  
  
So he’s surprised when Eames suddenly looks in his direction and waves. He’s even more surprised to find himself waving back.  
  
  
Another match-up starts, and Eames’s attention shift entirely to the game once more. Over the course of the next half hour, he manages to score two goals, though the last one is particularly impressive, involving the breaking of at least two laws of physics, and a potential visit to the school nurse.  
  
  
“Impressive moves out there,” Arthur notes when Eames comes limping up to him, favoring his left leg. He’s a sweaty, dirty, disheveled mess, and yet Arthur can’t stop staring.  
  
  
“Why,  _thank you_ , dearest!” Eames’s eyes are sparkling and excited, and that’s all the warning Arthur gets before Eames darts in to plant a damp but dainty peck on his cheek. “Did you see? I made that last goal for you.”  
  
  
“How romantic, Mr. Eames.” Arthur rolls his eyes and makes a show of wiping at his face. Eames laughs and slings an arm around Arthur’s shoulder, leaning against him heavily. He smells strongly of sweat, grass, and synthetic leather.  
  
  
“Too-bloody-right. And I think I tore a muscle. The things I do in the name of love.”  
  
  
“You prima donna. You didn’t tear a muscle, or you’d be laying on the grass, waiting for a stretcher. Ugh, you need a shower.” Arthur bears up under Eames’s weight as Eames limps locker-ward. After a few awkward steps and melodramatic groans, Arthur grumbles and loops an arm around Eames’s waist. “You big faker.”  
  
  
“I resent your baseless slurs,” Eames huffs out, gazing at Arthur with those sparkling, happy eyes. “And you’re right. I  _do_  need a shower. Care to join me?”  
  
  
“I’ll pass, thanks,” Arthur says. Then: “You’re so predictable in your sexual harassment.”  
  
  
“Aren’t I, though?” Eames sighs as they enter the locker room, his cleats making  _clack-tap_  noises on the concrete floor. “But that’s only because lately, everything reminds me of you. And sex. And sex with you.  _Especially_  in the shower,” Eames muses absently.  
  
  
“Sheesh, get a room, ladies,” one of the midfielders, Heyworth, says, squeezing by them and clapping Eames’s shoulder. He’s followed by two other players, Danny Vega and Nash Rezsnik. The former merely grins and claps Eames’s shoulder as well. The latter gives Arthur a hopeful, hang-dog look that makes Eames straighten up with a glare and pull Arthur closer.  
  
  
“Oi, move it along, then, boys,” he says in a hard voice Arthur’s never heard before. “Game’s over, see everyone Friday.”  
  
  
“Friday,” Heyworth calls back, already bullshitting with Vega. Nash, however, merely glances back at Arthur and waves. Arthur almost waves back, but doesn’t, this time.  _This time_ , he schools his face into something more like polite disinterest.  
  
  
He and Nash haven’t been friends since seventh grade, and Arthur has no intention of pretending they still are.  
  
  
“What a wanker.” Eames gives Nash the two-finger salute and steers Arthur away from the showers, to the lockers. He lets Arthur help him to the nearest bench and sits down with a relieved sigh. He then proceeds to kick off his shoes and socks, and peel off his shirt. Arthur averts his eyes. But not before he gets a good glimpse of well-defined arms and chest—practically  _covered in tattoos_ —and abs like  _whoa_.  
  
  
Arthur experiences a keen moment of wanting to trace the outline of each tattoo with his tongue. He even wonders if the skin there would taste any different from Eames’s un-inked skin. . . .  
  
  
“Anyway, darling, your place, or mine?” Eames is now massaging his left thigh unselfconsciously, muttering about Charley-horses.  
  
  
“ _Wh-what?_ ” Arthur stammers, guiltily snapping himself out of his reverie. When he meets Eames’s eyes, there’s no innuendo there, just Eames’s undivided attention.  
  
  
“You’re tutoring me, remember? Shall we do it at your place, or mine?” His sodden shirt falls to the floor, unnoticed, and he runs a hand over his damp hair. Flustered, Arthur blushes.  
  
  
“Right! I—um, I guess mine. I mean Mr. Fischer’s. That’s where I usually do my studying because my books live there, too.”  
  
  
Replaying the absolute absurdity of that last sentence, Arthur doesn’t try to backtrack, but he  _does_  try to shrug nonchalantly. Instead he twitches like a frog on a hot skillet and laughs nervously.  
  
  
Eames is looking at him like he’s nuts. “ . . . ‘where your books live,’ darling?”  
  
  
“They do, indeed, live there, Mr. Eames. So, um . . . yeah, so, I’ll just wait for you in the parking lot,” Arthur says, an octave higher than his normal voice. Then he hurries out of the lockerroom before his mouth—and what it wants—makes him look any more like a loser.  
  
  


*

  
  
“. . . and then, in 1904, he  _did_  win the presidency in a landslide victory. He fucking  _annihilated_  Alton Parker, the Democratic candidate,” Arthur says, his voice nearly echoing in the cavernous kitchen.  
  
  
“Hmm,” Eames says from his left, and when Arthur staring over at him, Eames is staring at him, not at the flash cards Arthur had spent part of last night making up. He rolls his eyes.  
  
  
“But then the two shook over it, and flew away to Narnia in a hot air balloon.”  
  
  
“Utterly fascinating.”  
  
  
“You’re not even listening to me, Mr. Eames,” Arthur accuses, and Eames grins, coloring just a bit.  
  
  
“My love, I  _always_  listen to you. At least as much as I  _watch_  you,” Eames says wryly. “And I’m sure President Roosevelt and Mr. Parker enjoyed their sojourn in Narnia. But what I wonder is how-ever did they get back in time for tea?”  
  
  
This time, Arthur’s the one who colors. “Oh, shut up,” he replies, at a loss for something smarter to say. Eames laughs, and moves his chair closer, leaning in toward Arthur. He’s close enough that Arthur can smell hints of soap and shampoo, and Eames’s skin, and . . . he decides it’s better to breathe through his mouth.  
  
  
“How do you even remember all this?” Eames asks admiringly. “No knock to you, darling, but it’s deadly boring stuff.”  
  
  
“Not to me. It’s knowledge, and in case you hadn’t heard, knowledge is power,” Arthur says haughtily, completely aware that he sounds like a tool, but unable to help it.  
  
  
 _This is why,_  he knows for a certainty,  _I have no friends._  
  
  
“And I take it you like feeling powerful?” Eames leans in even closer, till all Arthur can see is changeable eyes and that  _grin_.  
  
  
“I like  _being_  powerful,” Arthur corrects, more than a little distracted by the way Eames’s lips move when he talks.  
  
  
“Hmm, well, I think what you like is being in control.”  
  
  
“And, uh, how else w-would you define power, and the uses thereof?”  
  
  
Eames leans closer still, till his breath ghosts past Arthur’s cheek and Arthur’s breath catches.  
  
  
“You can control  _me_ , if you’d like,” Eames whispers, a warm gust of air in Arthur’s ear that nonetheless causes him to shiver, and turn to look at Eames.  
  
  
For once, he’s not grinning, but smiling that sunshine-smile. His teeth are very slightly crooked, as is his nose, as if it’s been broken. His eyes are so . . .  _so_. For once Arthur just doesn’t have the words to describe something.  
  
  
“Look, Eames—“  
  
  
“ _Roger_.”  
  
  
“ _Eames_  . . . are you . . . for real?”  
  
  
Eames blinks then laughs again, sitting back. He runs a hand through his hair, regarding Arthur fondly. “Arthur, light of my otherwise dreary life, I’m the realest deal you’ll ever  _meet_. At least when it comes to you.”  
  
  
Feeling a little dazed and disoriented, Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t understand you,” he admits, feeling turned-on and put-out, two feelings he's not used to—at least not simultaneously.  
  
  
“What’s not to understand, sweetheart?” Eames leans close again, taking Arthur’s hands. His own are warm and calloused. “I like you.  _A lot_. I think I’ve made that fairly obvious.”  
  
  
Which is something Arthur can’t get his head around, and thus can’t quite believe. “You have. But  _why_? Why me? What’s so damn special about  _me_?” he asks, and the grin slips from Eames’s face which isn’t, as Arthur had originally stated, a pretty one. But he’s beginning to find that it’s a handsome one.  
  
  
“Arthur, I . . . I’m going to kiss you, now.” Eames leans in even closer, his expression both hopeful and nervous. Arthur could and should lean away, or at least turn away. But he does neither of these things, and feels his life slipping partially out of his control, another sensation he’s neither likes nor is used to.  
  
  
But he also feels Eames’s breath on his lips, warm and stuttered. Then there’s nothing but the soft, firm press of lips against his own, like a dash of warm water on an icy night. It seems to last forever, but in a way that makes every atom of Arthur’s being sit up and take notice. And when Eames pulls away, Arthur follows helplessly, opening his eyes.  
  
  
But Eames isn’t looking at him. Eames is looking toward the back door, which is opening.  
  
  
Arthur had completely lost track of time, but now, he knows exactly what time it is, and jumps up guiltily.  
  
  
“Mom!” he exclaims, sounding like a complete spaz to his own ears. Ariadne Metzler shuts the door behind her, looking harried and struggling with dry-cleaning. As always she smiles when she sees Arthur, her face lighting up.  
  
  
“Sweetheart! Oh, you’re a lifesaver.” She bends a grateful glance his way when he immediately moves to take the dry-cleaning, kissing her smooth, perfumed cheek.  
  
  
Arthur lies the dry-cleaning on the center counter, then takes her briefcase and does the same with it. She toes off her low heels with a groan and unbuttons the jacket of her Donna Karan suit. “How was your day?”  
  
  
“Murder, as usual,” she says, smiling a bit. Being Robert Fischer’s personal assistant is not an easy job, but a better, better paying job than being his head of household had been. “Robert’s been buried for the past few days and work shows no sign of letting him up. I’m just home to make sure we get a little quality time—and that you actually  _eat something_ —then I’m heading back to the off—oh, who’s your friend?”  
  
  
His face heating up, Arthur turns to face Eames, only to find Eames standing right behind him, hand held out.  
  
  
“Roger Eames, Missus. I live across the street,” he says, and when Ariadne takes his hand, he pulls it up to his face to kiss it. “And you are  _far_  too lovely and young to be anyone’s mother.”  
  
  
“Oh!” Ariadne actually turns pink, and swats Eames’s hand playfully, smiling up at him. It’s an unreserved,  _lovely_  smile, one Arthur knows that he didn’t inherit. “You’re as much of a charmer as your parents, Roger.”  
  
  
Eames brightens. “You’ve met my mums, then?”  
  
  
 _Mums_? Arthur mouths at him; Eames winks.  
  
  
“I have.” Ariadne takes Arthur’s arm. She barely comes up to his shoulder. “Briefly, when they were moving into the MacNeely place. They were very gracious and sweet.”  
  
  
“I’m rather surprised either or the both of them didn’t shanghai you for tea and gossip,” Eames says fondly.  
  
  
“Well, Anna tried, but Margaret insisted it wait till they could actually find their tea service.” Ariadne laughs, squeezing Arthur’s arm before letting it go. “So, what are you two up to?”  
  
  
“Up to?” Arthur says, at the same time as Eames, a little red about the face, says: “Studying.”  
  
  
Ariadne’s eyes dart between the two of them. “Okay,” she says, looking far too amused for Arthur’s liking. “Roger, would you like to stay for dinner? I have no idea what Mrs. Hodgins is whipping up, but it promises to be good.”  
  
  
“Er—yeah, yes, I’d love to,” Eames says, quickly, digging in his blazer pocket. He comes out with a Blackberry. “Right. Just gonna give the mums a ring and let them know. Excuse me.”  
  
  
Eames wanders off toward the refrigerator, punching in numbers, and Ariadne takes Arthur’s arm again, grinning.  
  
  
“He’s  _cute_ ,” she murmurs, and Arthur blushes.   
  
  
“ _Mom._ ” Arthur gives her a warning glance, then looks over at Eames, who’s at least twenty feet away, but one can never be too careful.  
  
  
“Oh, don’t be so skittish, Arthur. It’s plain to see he really likes you,” she says, leaning on the kitchen table. She skims Arthur’s flash cards and exhales. “Wow, look at the lengths he’s willing to go through just to hang out with you. He’s a keeper.”  
  
  
“I’ll have you know,  _mother_ , that Eames really does suck at—pretty much everything school-related. But only because he doesn’t apply himself,” Arthur adds quickly, glancing over his shoulder at Eames, who’s still talking on the phone.  
  
  
“Seriously, Arthur,” Ariadne whispers, and Arthur looks at her, into her dark eyes. He sees worry there, and hope. “You’re seventeen, and as far as I know, you’ve never been on a date, never even kissed anyone.”  
  
  
She’s half right, anyway.  
  
  
“So I should start with the guy I’m tutoring? That’s ethical.”  
  
  
Ariadne rolls her eyes, one thing Arthur  _had_  inherited from her, aside from his small, wiry stature. “Honey, you’re in high school. Try and remember that. You won’t have to worry about ethics till they make you take a course in college.”  
  
  
“Ha-ha.”  
  
  
She smiles at him, and tweaks his nose like she did when he was little. Now, as then, he wrinkles his nose in an affronted fashion.  
  
  
“I’m just worried that you’re not having any fun at the one time in your life you’re allowed to without the world watching over your shoulder.”  
  
  
“Clearly you’ve never gone to high school,” Arthur snorts bitterly.  
  
  
That smile fades. “Is this Grinnell, all over again? Are you being harassed?”  
  
  
“No, it’s not like that.” In fact, besides being one of the most expensive private schools in the state, Dalemont Prep is nothing like Martin Grinnell Public High School. Arthur doesn’t get harassed or bullied for being a scrawny, gay nerd. He’s barely even noticed by his peers, and even if he were, they’d be more likely to freeze him out, rather than do something so classless as  _associate_  with him in any way.  
  
  
But his mother doesn’t need to know all that. All she needs to know is that he’s fine and, lack of friends or social life aside, is fairly happy.  
  
  
“Then what  _is_  it like?” Ariadne prods, her eyebrows raised.  
  
  
Freeing his arm, Arthur sighs his irritation, hopefully a signal that lets her know he’s not going to talk about this at all, let alone  _now_. “Mom, it’s fine.  _I’m_  fine.”  
  
  
“Oh, well, there you go, then.” Snark. Not a good sign for her caving about this. She can be a real pitbull when it comes to Arthur, mauling a subject to death with tooth and claw. “Is it fine that Roger is the first friend you’ve brought home since you were thirteen?”  
  
  
“He’s not my  _friend_ , he’s my . . .  _tutee_.” Arthur’s not even sure that’s a word, and makes a mental note to check his dictionaries later. “And frankly, after what happened with Nash, I’m not in the market for any more friends.”  
  
  
And that scores a hit. The sternness fades from Ariadne’s face and she takes his hand. “Oh, Arthur, he made a mistake. A silly, hurtful mistake. He was a child, and so were you.”  
  
  
“Even children know you don’t betray friends and expect to keep them. Nash can go to straight Hell for all I care,” Arthur says flatly.  
  
  
Ariadne shakes her head. “Sweetheart, you have to learn how to forgive people their mistakes, or you’re going to live a very lonely life.”  
  
  
 _I already live a very lonely life, and you have no idea how forgiving I am,_  Arthur wants to tell her. But that, too, would be a discussion for another time, if ever.  
  
  
He looks away from her, at Eames, who’s laughing raucously at something one of his mothers said.  
  
  
“Does Roger know you’re gay?” Ariadne asks quietly. Arthur shrugs.  
  
  
“Yeah, he knows. I didn’t tell him, but . . . he knows.”  
  
  
“I see. And he hasn’t run off screaming into the night?” Wide, fake-shocked eyes and a dramatic gasp greet Arthur’s sour look. “So, he was okay with the gay, I take it. Now, was he okay-okay, or  _okay_ -okay?”  
  
  
Managing not to bristle at her insinuation, Arthur squeezes her hand lightly. “Let it go, mom. There's nothing going on between me and Eames.”  
  
  
Suddenly Ariadne gets  _that_  look, the one that says she’s just figured something out. “Arthur, when I came home, did I happen to interrupt, uh,  _nothing_?”  
  
  
“ _There was no interrupting of anything_.” Arthur fights yet another blush as he remembers the feel of Eames’s lips on his own, so soft and warm and—  
  
  
“Nothing happened. Really,” he says firmly, and Ariadne rolls her eyes again.  
  
  
“You’re the worst liar in the history of ever, you know?”  
  
  
“At least I come by it honestly.”  
  
  
“That, you do.” Ariadne winces and sighs. “Regardless—“  
  
  
“Missus?” They both look over to where Eames is standing. He’s got his phone to his ear with the mouthpiece covered. “Mum wants to know if you and Arthur are free for tea this Sunday, around half-four?”  
  
  
“Of course!” Ariadne says brightly, before Arthur can say anything at all. “We’d be honored to come to tea.”  
  
  
“Splendid! They said yes, Mum,” Eames tells his mother in a slightly quieter tone. “What? No, they’re not allergic to—hells—Missus, Arthur, are you allergic to anything?”  
  
  
“Unless you’re planning to have tea in a beehive, no,” Arthur says dryly. Ariadne smacks his hand and Eames sticks out his tongue, but seems amused.  
  
  
“Right, no food allergies . . . oh, yeah, I’ll tell them . . . yeah. Yeah.  _Mum, no_  . . . alright, maybe a little.” Eames shifts a bit, standing on his right foot, and flexing and releasing the muscles in his left leg. “Still hurts like a bastard, but the nurse said it was just a little bruised. It was well worth it for the goal I scored; you should’ve  _seen_  what I did. . . .”  
  
  
Ariadne tugs Arthur’s hand, and he reluctantly takes his eyes off of Eames and meets the alarmingly  _knowing_  look on her face.  
  
  
“For the record, Arthur, your  _tutee_  is  _fine_. They didn’t make ‘em like that when  _I_  was in high school.”  
  
  
Arthur scowls at the wistful tone in her voice. “Down, girl.”  
  
  
Ariadne holds up her hands in a too-innocent  _who, me?_  gesture that reminds him of Eames.  
  
  
“All I'm saying is, if  _you_  don’t tap that,  _I_  just might.”  
  
  
“ _Mom!_ ”  
  


*

  
  
  
Shortly after Ariadne arrives, Mrs. Hodgins also arrives, bearing groceries. Eames and Arthur help her with them, then she promptly shoos everyone out of her kitchen.  
  
  
Ariadne excuses herself to change out of her office clothes, which leaves Arthur in the main hall with a grinning Eames.  
  
  
Neither of them seems to know what to say, Eames nodding like Arthur just said something insightful, Arthur rocking back and forth on his heels and toes.  
  
  
“Would you like a tour?” he asks as soon as the thought pops into his head. As if finally receiving some obscure cue, Eames steps a bit closer.  
  
  
“Actually, I’d like to pick up where we left off.”  
  
  
“I—“ Arthur flounders for a moment, then turns away, marching off to the staircase. “The late Mr. Fischer had this house built in the early seventies, for his wife, Laura Paxton-Fischer. . . .”  
  
  
Eames groans loudly then hurries to catch up, taking Arthur’s hand and lacing their fingers together. Arthur swallows, but doesn’t immediately free his hand. Eames pulls him around so they’re facing each other, eye to eye, with Arthur on the first step.  
  
  
“I really don’t care about the history of this silly bloody house,” he says, almost apologetically, stepping close enough that Arthur can once more feel the gentle plume of his breath.  
  
  
“But it’s a very  _interesting_  house with a very interesting  _history_ ,” Arthur persists, because he doesn’t know what else to do with Eames so very close, being so very distracting. “And we both know you could use all the help with history you can get.”  
  
  
Eames moves closer, still, till he can lean his forehead against Arthur’s.  
  
  
“Listen, we can go as slow as you want, Arthur,” he says softly, their noses brushing. “You have no idea how patient I can be.”  
  
  
Arthur inhales and lets it out slowly. Eames’s scent seems to wrap itself around his brain.  
  
  
“I don’t know what you want from me,” Arthur says almost helplessly, closing his eyes. Eames’s lips brush his lightly, not pushing for more than that brief, gentle press. But it’s enough to temporarily short Arthur’s logic circuits.   
  
  
“Everything,” Eames says then laughs a little. “I mean, as presumptuous as it sounds, I want it all. And I’m willing to wait for as long as it takes for you to be on the same page.”  
  
  
“How do you know I’ll  _ever_  be on the same page?” Arthur asks, and if his lips happen to brush Eames’s when he asks, it’s not like he did it on  _purpose_. Not even when the second half of Arthur’s question is technically a kiss, that  _technically_  becomes open-mouthed at the end.  
  
  
Eames is only the second person Arthur’s ever kissed, and this kiss, tentative though it is, is a thousand light years better than the last. Especially when Eames’s hands comes up to cup Arthur’s face, and Arthur responds by placing his hands on Eames’s hips.  
  
  
There’s a brief, wet tickle on Arthur’s lips that can only be Eames’s tongue, and Arthur breaks the kiss, breathing like a man who just ran a marathon.  
  
  
“Call it a hunch I have,” Eames murmurs, smiling against Arthur’s mouth, before leaning back just far enough to look into his eyes. “Okay?”  
  
  
Arthur nods once, briefly, his hands curling into the fabric of Eames’s shirt before he lets go. He can't read what's in Eames's eyes and is afraid to try.  
  
  
“Right, then.” Eames’s hands slide down from Arthur’s face, to his neck, down his collarbone and chest, where they linger, heavy and warm, before Eames takes his hands again. “So, you mentioned something about a tour, pet?”  
  
  
Arthur nods again, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I—um, there’s a really cool view from the second floor balcony. It runs all along the front of the house, and you can see the whole neighborhood from there. We could, you know. Go there, if you want.”  
  
  
“I want. I want, very much,” Eames says lowly, the innuendo in his voice too raw to be teasing.  
  
  
Arthur doesn’t blush. All excess blood’s been diverted to points south of his face.  
  
  
Instead, he tugs on Eames’s hand, leading up the carpeted staircase, wondering what the hell he’s doing—uncertain about everything except that he doesn’t want to let go of Eames’s hand.  
  
  
And Eames doesn’t seem too eager to have his hand let go of.  
  
  
“Tell me more about this balcony, and the spectacular view.” Eames swings Arthur’s hand a little and matches him step for step. He can feel Eames’s gaze on his face, but is all of a sudden shy about meeting it.  
  
  
“Well, um, Mr. Fischer had the balcony added to the house as a present for his wife after the birth of their first child, Robert.”  
  
  
“Really?"  
  
  
"Yep." At the top of the stairs, Arthur takes a deep breath and turns to face Eames, who's watching him with a very solemn cast to his features. It's the most serious Arthur's ever seen him, and it almost makes him smile. "She, um, wanted to be able to see for miles around without leaving the the comfort of her house, so he had the balcony put in specially for her . . . as a token of his love."  
  
  
Eames smiles, slow and warm, lacing their fingers together again. "That’s fascinating. . . .”  
  



End file.
